


second most wanted

by younglemonade



Series: Day of the Summer 2017 [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, blacklist au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 16:42:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12611004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/younglemonade/pseuds/younglemonade
Summary: third day of the summer prompt: blacklist au aka. aka. criminal mastermind turns themselves into the FBI to help apprehend bad guys – but insists on only speaking with one person/ / /The Machine starts playing soft music that winds along a crescendo, building in force and depth as it rolls along, as if She’s trying to hype her up. It’s kind of working. Especially when Root remembers the compromise they made – the Machine wanted someone to help them, and Root wanted it to be a particular someone.





	second most wanted

**Author's Note:**

> Note accompanying this chapter has been removed.

 

Root wrinkles her nose as the J Edgar Hoover building comes into sight. It’s hardly the last word in architecture; a hulking concrete creature buried in the block like a tumour, all off-brown and hard edges.

“Are you sure?” Root asks, even though She’s incapable of being unsure; it’s mostly just Root being petulant at this point. Government cooperation isn’t really her scene, hasn’t been since a tepid night in Bishop when the world fell away. Still, she’d do anything for Her, including deal with grumpy, self-important bureaucrats as they wind themselves up and squeak like children’s toys. At least there will likely be ample opportunity for smirking. And teasing. There’s always fun to be had in knowing more than people whose egos demand they know everything.

The government had pulled the plug their mass surveillance scheme when the Machine was merely a few lines of code away from being finished, tossing her aside like an outgrown toy. She’d spent years only half-awake, waiting in the background, until Root had stumbled across Her, finished Her, worshipped Her. And they’ve had fun, Root’s life of crime slightly tempered by Her influence, but also smoothed by having a God to watch her back. But even with the whole world and all possible futures sprawled out in front of them, the Machine still wants to help people, a lingering part of her original programming. Still wants the government to help her do it. Good code and all that, Root supposes.

The Machine starts playing soft music that winds along a crescendo, building in force and depth as it rolls along, as if She’s trying to hype her up. It’s kind of working. Especially when Root remembers the compromise they made – the Machine wanted someone to help them, and Root wanted it to be a particular someone.

She walks into the lobby, through the metal detectors, and up to the small booth.

“Hi,” she grins at the woman in the booth. The music is staccato now, beats away from the finale. “I’d like to see Director John Reese, if I might?”

The woman smiles back, a secretary-smile, an it’s-my-job-to-smile-at-strangers smile. “Do you have an appointment?

“Tell him Root is here to see him,” she winks, pleased when the woman blushes ever-so-slightly as she enters her name into the system. A system which, for the record, Root has hacked on several occasions, both drunk and sober, for business and pleasure.

She steps away, putting down her bag and taking off her coat – it cost a lot of money, and she’s not about to let a bunch of tasteless security thugs ruin it. In fairness, she’d stolen it, so it hadn’t cost _her_ a lot of money, but the principle stands. The alarms start wailing just as she links her hands together over the back of her head and kneels on the ground, an I’m-unarmed-but-still-dangerous posture. 

The name on the FBI’s Most Wanted poster is Samantha Groves, which only ever made it to the public because she let it. It’s good for her reputation, but she likes the distance it gives her – Root is the criminal, the mastermind, the girl who toys with law enforcement and makes off with millions she doesn’t really need or want. Samantha Groves is a kid from Texas that she cast off, like the heavy part of a rocket ship that falls away as the craft heads into space – the part she gave to the FBI like a love token, like a taunt. Forget-me-not. She could’ve stayed off their radar entirely, but what’s life without a little drama?

Root is listed as one of Samantha Groves’ aliases, though, thanks to a quick hack done earlier by the Machine to ensure she wouldn’t have to introduce herself using her old name.

It takes about five seconds before Root has all manner of firearms pointed at her.

Today is going swimmingly.

/ / /

They put her in a giant sealed chamber made of glass and metal. One of the agents tells her it’s impenetrable, so not to try anything, which, by the way – _adorable_. They haven’t got her anywhere she doesn’t want to be, nor anywhere the Machine couldn’t facilitate her victorious escape from. She has them surrounded from the inside.

Even if the Machine wasn’t there to keep her updated on the technology situation, she’d know they have about three cameras watching her, and probably at least that many microphones.

“I’m the real Root, aka. Samantha Groves, if you want to get all birth-certificate about it, which I certainly don’t. The brief case contains files on every alias I’ve ever used, and I think you’ll agree I’m quite prolific.” She can just imagine all the little agents, running around, panicking over paperwork. The worker ants meeting the queen. “I know about the Tokyo incident. And Wellington.”

The Machine has patched her into the office, so she can eavesdrop on them while they listen to her. Root can’t tell them about Her – they’d only hunt Her down and cage Her, turning Her into a circus monkey. But it’s always fun to play to omniscient one, and have them fret over how she’s one step ahead, always. More like twenty steps, really.

“And I know about Brussels,” she smirks.

The com in her ear crackles. _What happened in Brussels?_ she hears Reese demand. There’s a pause, and then, Fusco – _We tried to kill her, sir._

She gives them a few more moments to dwell in their own confusion before she pipes up again. “Don’t stress, kids. I’m here to help you. A man name John Greer just entered the country on Flight 548A to Damascus.”

More squawking – _John Greer is dead – Wait a second – Yes, sir, that’s definitely him – Entered the country under the name “Oscar Wade”._

They stumble their way through everything she already knows. Honestly, it’s like being imprisoned by kindergartners. Root would be concerned that these people are in charge of national security, if she wasn’t the kind of person usually considered to constitute a threat to national security. Which is infinitely more entertaining, by the way, and she strongly recommends that everyone try it at some point or other.

“I’m here to help you catch him,” she announces. “And with my help, you _will_ catch him. Without it, hundreds of people will die. And it’s your lucky day, because I have only two conditions: I get full immunity… and I speak only with Sameen Shaw.”

/ / /

“This is your first day as a Special Agent?” Reese asks her, as if her file isn’t right there in front of them.

Shaw wonders what her chances of getting fired are if she gets up and walks out on the Assistant Director of the FBI. Maybe she’ll get away with a warning if she explains that he was asking inane questions.

Instead, she grinds her teeth, and grits out, “Yes.” And then – “But I’m hardly green. I was a trauma surgeon and then in the Marines and top of my class at Quantico.”

Reese nods. “And you’ve never known or been aligned with the individual who calls herself Root, aka. Samantha Groves?”

“Number 2 on the Most Wanted List? No.” Shaw reckons it probably grates at this Root chick to be only Number 2. She read a study once that found bronze Olympic medallists were happier than silver winners. Close, but no cigar – she’s not quite the most villainous villain, and that’s gotta burn.

“Do you have any idea why she’s insisting she talk only to you?” Reese presses, his face unreadable. Not that Shaw is exactly putting effort into reading it.

She huffs. “Maybe she got tired of you people kept asking questions you both already knew the answers to?”

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that Root turned herself in the day you started working as a Special Agent?”

“Well, I certainly don’t think it’s fate.” A stern look. “Yes, _sir_ , it looks like she planned it.”

/ / /

They take her to a black-site in a decommissioned post office, which seems a little cheesy, if you ask her. Personally, she’d suggest building one beneath a restaurant, or at least near one. Kill lots of birds with one bullet, et cetera.

Reese brings her to the little glass cube they’re using as a prison, and yep, Shaw recognises this chick’s picture from the academy. She’s hotter in person, although Shaw guesses that’s not the sort of thing Reese would appreciate her saying about a criminal mastermind. Not that she usually cares about what other people think, but she’s a lot more interested now that this day’s gone all covert-ops, and she’d rather not be kicked out before she can get to the bottom of it.

Number 2 from the Most Wanted List grins at her cheerfully, as if she’s not currently detained in a location that technically doesn’t exist where her human rights have probably been indefinitely suspended. Although that’s really more the CIA’s shtick.

“Hey, sweetie,” she smirks. “I’m Root. And I’m a _big_ fan of yours.”

“Is that so?”

Root nods, and somehow, her grin gets even wider. “Oh, yes. We’re going to have so much fun together.”


End file.
